“We’re not really different from you [straight people], we just want to love a different person. And even if we are different than you, well fuck off; you’re fucking different as well.”
Eloquence, y’all. In it’s tipsiest form.
WHATEVER! SHUT UP! The message is still there:
It gets better. Really and truly, it does.
Gotta shit?
Do it, dummy!
You’re at a lesbian bar. There are less than 11 other Gawd given wieners here.
Chances are – who ever smells it ain’t gonna be someone you wanna fuck, anywho.
No one cares what your hair looks like, fool.
You’re at a lesbian bar.
The hottest guys are girls.
So quit cruisin’ and just listen to Lady Gaga and DANCE.
Dear burger, fries, and milkshake from last night,
Tell no one what happened between us after I left the bar. Especially not my gut nor my wallet. Okay? Thanks…
Callmethisweekend!
“I wasn’t sure I was attracted to you, at the club,” a boi told me as he stroked my hair, late one night, last fall. “But you have a nice shape.”
“Why –” I struggled, drunkenly, out of the crook of his arm, turning to stare at him, flabbergasted, “would you tell me that?”
Fortunately for him, I had to rush to the bathroom and hurl up a half gallon of vodka Red Bull, effectively removing the pressure to atone for his backhanded flattery.
He got a similarly bittersweet taste in his own mouth, though – when I kissed him full on the lips after returning to bed without brushing my teeth.
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